


Cave Canem

by Thelittlescrimshaw



Series: The Doors of Perception [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Combat Sadomasochism, F/M, Reylo - Freeform, Vignettes, kylo likes being beaten up, monster guarding the maiden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:38:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8551912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thelittlescrimshaw/pseuds/Thelittlescrimshaw
Summary: It was a warning that Rey had never taken to heart. He crashes into her life headfirst with bared teeth and manic eyes. And there she is, a beacon of light, of satisfied, of salvation. She fights him tooth and nail, and the rush is exhilarating. Vignettes.





	1. the first

**Author's Note:**

> Under Construction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UNDER CONSTRUCTION

Memory is a game, drenched in blood and draped in wires. He’s always been fond of them _(games, that is, not memories. Memories are dangerous. Most of his had been torn from his mind by his master long ago.)_

He is a husk of a man, a yellow-eyed monster who knows only _hate_ and _kill_ and _conquer._  He is content to be a harbinger of destruction, to play the left hand of god, to be the Supreme Leader's guard dog. He's been at the Supreme Leader's side for a little under a decade, and soon his training will come to fruition and he will live up to his grandfather's legacy.

But then - 

But then he chases a droid halfway around the galaxy, and there is the girl.

Tracking her down in the forest is an easy enough task.  She reminds him of a yearling deer, standing on shaking legs and looking at him with wide brown eyes, terrified even as she points a blaster at him.

She is a wild thing if there ever was one, and for a moment he is taken aback.

When he takes her to his ship and peeks into her mind, he see that she knows _hope_ and _wait_ and _survive._ The last one beats in tandem with her heart loud enough for him to hear, coursing through her veins,: _survive, survive, survive._

And suddenly, there is another thing within him. It opens up deep in his core, an all-consuming black pit: _want._

And suddenly, he is ravenous.

And suddenly, he has a new purpose.

There is something burning inside of him, a spark ignited from the moment she pushes back into his mind and - loathe as his is to admit it - sees right through him. Untrained as she is, she is his equal – unattainable, elusive, all nimble feet and sharp angles – and that fans the flames of desire even _more._

But he is no better than a dog chasing after birds. He wouldn’t know what to do if he actually caught one.  _(Wouldn't know what to do if he actually caught_ her).

But he is no better than a husk of a man. He doesn’t know what to do with the _want_ other than to deny it, to shove it aside. It he does not quell it soon, it will consume him. _She_ will consume him.

And he must not allow that.

* * *

Kylo Ren crashes into Rey's life headfirst with bared teeth and manic eyes. And there she is, a beacon of light, of satisfied, of _salvation._ She fights him tooth and nail, and the rush is exhilarating. They are so close, so _open,_ that he doesn’t even need to pry to sense what’s at the forefront of her mind.

“You still want to kill me.” He is not put off by this fact; if anything he is floored by it. He marvels at her determination. He is on the defensive; he spins out from her saber’s reach with the ease of a practiced warrior. She was still learning, still clumsy, but oh so _tenacious_ in her hatred for him.

“You still want to kidnap me,” she spits, advancing on him, looking like a warrior-goddess and walking with the feral confidence of a panther. “You won’t leave me alone.”

“No,” he agrees. And he wouldn’t, not until the gaping hole inside of him is satisfied. “You’re _distracting.”_

“And you need to learn when to quit.”

Kylo Ren smiles. He quite likes the pot calling the kettle black.

She drew closer; in one swift motion he steps into her personal space, blocking her saber with one hand and grabbing her bicep in the other. She bares her teeth at him and tries to wrench herself free. But she is small, and he is big, and he overpowers her easily.

(Too easily, really, if he is being honest with himself; she puts up a _delicious_ fight when given the chance. But he cannot give her that chance – not now.)

“Let me teach you,” he pleads. “Let me guide you to greatness.”

She shakes her head, refusing to speak. He pushes into her mind with his own. Rey surges against him with the Force, digging into his psyche just as he anticipated she would. He grits his teeth and bears the brunt of the mental attack, knowing that there was nothing inside of him she could find. Any humanity that was left inside of him had been torn to shreds long ago.

So he bears it and watches her rapturously; he feels her whirring through his mind, ripping into his very being. She is not gentle. She is not kind. She is merciless in her search for something – anything – within him that is a weakness.

He does not stop her. She will find none.

She is inside of him, all movement and desperate and _alive,_ so alive – her presence is burning.

He is not used to life, in his existence of dancing with death.

There is something horrified on her face. He does not stop her as she backs away. His eyes do not leave her face.

She leaves in a hurry, and he can see it on her face. She is scared, she pities him and he – he cannot face it. Will not face it.

He shrouds himself in darkness and retreats to the shadows.

* * *

When she sees him, she’s stricken with fear and excitement in equal measures. Their encounters are brief. By now Rey knows this game: he will pursue her throughout the galaxy, and she will fight him. They are entwined at the root in a dance of mutually ensured destruction.

It is not long before Rey realizes that she’s being herded. He’s driving her closer and closer to the original Force Temple, the one that predates both the Jedi and the Sith. Rey doesn’t know _how_ he knows of her destination, but then again, Kylo Ren seems to know a lot of things, on his clear days.

He is a phantom presence, except when he isn’t, barreling into her life and offering her the world. Time and time again, Rey declines.

One time – a precious moment when they are not locked in battle – she asks, “Why are you following me?”

He looks at her as if it should be obvious. “You are my business.”

Those four words shattered any semblance of peace she might have had.

* * *

They are battling.

It’s a ferocious thing, a deadly dance, whirling limbs and snarling teeth. Rey is getting tired; she’s exhausted to the point of malice, being torn in two different direction by this dichotomy of a man. He begs, he pleads, for her to join him – and he engages her in combat, attacking on a whim. But he toes the line – he is never too forceful, restraining his power, barking instructions at her.

“You are too _sloppy!”_  He taunts. “You need to move tighter. Don’t flail your arms!” He’s bearing down on her, putting Rey on the defensive, but he’s not attacking – not truly.

It is then that Rey realizes that she had severely underestimated his methods. She’d assumed he was operating at random, showing up erratically with no intention in mind.

Clearly, she’d been wrong.

And as such, he has inadvertently made himself her teacher.

They’re at a stalemate, sabers locked together. Her blue, his red, the only light illuminating the dark forest. Even the moon was hidden. There, in the darkness, Rey scrounged up the bravery to ask, “Why? Why me? Why this?”

“Because you need me,” he answers. “Just as I need you. I am far more powerful than you know. I can bring you greatness. Use me as you will.”

She had never meant to tame him – that had never been her intention.

But he was a stray dog, looking for a new master. And he latched onto her.

_Cave canem._

* * *

Rey is dreaming.

She knows this as sure as she knows her own name, but she cannot escape it. She is standing in a dark forest, the ground soft beneath her feet.

 _He_ is behind her.

She can feel his presence enveloping her, _wonderful, want, worship_ ; it is almost comforting, _almost,_ if it weren’t for the _malice, monster, murderer,_ rolling off him in waves.

“Rey,” he says, and she feels a chill go up her spine. He is behind her. She can feel his breath on her neck, can feel his hands hovering just inches away from her waist.

Rey swallows. “What do you want?”

He pauses. She can feel his lips ghost against her ear. “Oh, Rey,” he murmurs. His arms encircle her, pulling her flush against him. Rey does not resist. It feels good to give in, to submit, to stop fighting.

For the first time in her life, Rey stops fighting.

He is warm, and against all odds Rey draws comfort from his touch. Her eyes flutter shut as she leans into him. His arms tighten around her and he sighs. His face is buried in her neck.

“I’ve dreamed of this for so long.”

His voice is smooth and deep and his breath is brushing against her neck and Rey’s heart is beating faster and faster. He can feel it, she knows he can; there’s satisfaction and seduction rolling off him in waves.

“Why?” Rey asks. Why would he dream of her? Why has he not given up his pursuit?

But she knows the answer – he is obsessed. He is devoted. He is an acolyte that she never asked for.

But he does not answer. Instead he presses his lips to her neck, draws circles around her hipbone. “You are _exquisite._ You deserve an empire. I would give you one. I would show you the path to the stars.”

His voice strikes a chord within her. She doesn’t want that – she doesn’t want to be put on this pedestal.

“Kylo,” she says, and makes to turn around.

But when she does, he is gone.

* * *

His Knights are pursuing Rey, and he is pursuing his Knights.

Rey, injured and hunted fell of the cliff and he – recklessly and without forethought – jumps in after her.

The water is cold and rough, and hits him like a wall. He’s a strong swimmer, long-limbed and streamlined, but the raging storm throws him at first. He dives below, searching for her.

She is a deadweight, scarcely alive; he carries her to the shore and listens to her chest only long enough to see if she is breathing; she is.

When he looks up, the Knights are approaching at a breakneck place. Something wild and angry rears its head deep within him; he will _not_ let these people destroy his Rey. He will _not._

With a sweep of his arm he incapacitates three of the Knights, jerking them off their feet and sending them crashing into the ocean. He keeps them down, holds them underwater. They will not live to see another day.

Three more are advancing, weapons drawn. Kylo Ren crouches over Rey; Vader’s saber is still at her hip, had miraculously survived her almost-drowning. _Good._

He ignites it and, with a roar, clashes with the Knights.

He is a yellow-eyed monster, and it’s a one-sided massacre.

They will _not_ touch her. They will not touch what is _his._

* * *

He gathers her into his arms – and oh, she is small – and carries her to his ship. She belongs at his side, on an altar, sitting in a throne. He would give her the world, if she would take it from him. Kylo is convinced that she is nothing short of divine.

He strips himself of his robes; he does the same with her soaking clothes. She is shivering, feverish; the cut on her leg is infected. Bacta, then.

He makes no effort to preserve her modesty. Soaking, dirty, bloodied clothes will not help her. They do not suit her form.

Gently, slowly, _reverently,_ he removes her clothes, layer by layer, revealing more of her form. Her frame is fragile, held together by a sturdy musculature. Her skin is soft but her hands are calloused. Her breasts are small and perky, her nipples a dusky pink. The planes of her stomach dip into hipbones; her legs are long and shapely, her calf marred by a jagged wound that’s leaking yellow pus.

Kylo dresses it with bacta patches and places her on his bed. He covers her with a sheet – she will need it – and sits next to her.

His unlaces his boots, shucks of his shirt, and lies next to her.

It is moments before sleep overtakes him.

* * *

Rey awakes and she does not know where she is. She is naked and lying next to Kylo Ren. She is struck with a bone-deep fear; the last thing she remembers is falling over the cliff. Her leg hurts, but a quick inspection shows that the wound is dressed.

Rey looks from her healing leg to the massive, sleeping form of Kylo Ren. Had he…?

He is in jured – the wounds have yet to fully close. Rey wonders how long he had been passed out.

She leaves the bed, rummages around to find dry clothes. She tugs on one of his tunics. She’s positively swimming in it, but it’s better htan being naked.

She finds a utility closet; rope. Good.

The first matter of business is immobilizing Kylo Ren. She uses the Force to press down on his psyche, to keep him unconscious. Entering his mind is just as chilling as the first time. Rey is surprised by the emptiness – but there, at the epicenter, is a gaping hole of _want._

She shivers and is all too grateful to be out of that damaged mind.

She secures his arms above his head, ties them to the bedpost. She does the same with his ankles. Rey does not know what drives her to heal him – if it is guilt, obligation, or something more – but she does, cleaning the dried blood off his torso and setting bacta patches on him.

He awakes just as she is finishing.

“Rey,” he breathes, and she shivers at how her name falls from his mouth. She gives him at a glance and immediately regrets it – his eyes are captivating, alive – perhaps the only alive part of him.

She doesn’t respond; she drags her eyes away and forces herself to focus on patching his wounds. He doesn’t seem to mind that he is restrained; she can feel his eyes on her.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says at length.

“Of course I did,” he says. “You’re my responsibility.”

“I wish I weren’t.”

He sighs. The sound is so forlorn it tugs at something tender deep within Rey.

She does her best to ignore it

His chest is expansive, his core thick. He’s a wide man, a muscled man, a powerhouse. Her restraints would likely not deter him if he was determined.

No wonder he was the First Knight.

“Like what you see?”

It was a taunt, a tease, nothing more, and Rey wouldn’t give him the dignity of a response. The silence stretched out between them.

Kylo gives a particularly sharp hiss when Rey dabs on a wound on his abdomen. She tenses, afraid he’ll somehow break the restraints and go after her.

“You’re still afraid of me,” he murmurs. “After all this…”

Rey swallows. “I have no reason not to be, Kylo.” She applies the bacta patch; he relaxes, his muscles moving ever-so-slightly under his skin. Rey is fascinated. “If I wanted to hurt you Rey, I wouldn’t have gotten you from the ocean.”

Rey opens her mouth, closes it again. She continues cleaning his wounds meticulously – if only to have something to do with her hands. He relaxes under her touch. She can feel impressions from him rolling off in waves: there’s _relief,_ and _hunger,_ and _dear god don’t stop._

She finds herself compelled to keep touching him. She draws a finger over the planes of his stomach, draws circles around his navel. He lets out a small breath; a glance at his face confirms her suspicions. Kylo Ren’s eyes are half lidded, his mouth slightly open.

He’s reveling in her touch.

A small part of Rey feels for him; she’s never touched someone this intimately, even in a healing capacity. A monster he may be, but he took the form of a man.

She draws her forefinger over the tail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his pants. She feels it, the surge of _want_ bubbling up inside of him, but he does not vocalize it. He’s waiting for her, and something deep inside Rey knows that he would follow her to the ends of the earth if she only asked.

Somehow, Rey has managed to tame the monster.

She draws her hand down, down; she is not familiar with a man’s body firsthand, but when she draws her hand over the growing bulge in his pants, he lets out a faint moan.

Rey licks her lips. There was something tantalizing about it – about him – and she was entranced. His eyes watched her rapturously as she undid the button on his trousers and took his cock into her fist. It was stiff, soft skin; she dragged her hand from the base to the tip, and he bit his lip against another groan.

Rey wondered when someone had last touched him like this.

She worms his pants further down his legs – and oh, he has powerful thighs – so she can get a better grip on his cock. He moans again as she touches him, gripping harder at the base and loose at the tip. His breathing quickens, his chest heaving. Rey wants to leave her own mark there, angry and red, but she resists the urge.

“Your hands are so soft,” he murmurs, and Rey doesn’t know what to say to that. She continues stroking him faster and faster. He gasps and groans grow more fervent until his body tenses, and then white ropes are shooting from his cock and onto his stomach.

Rey looks from the mess she – they’d – made and back to him. He looks blissed out, truly relaxed, even with his hands and ankles bound. Rey isn’t sure how long she’s staring at him before he speaks.

“At least let me return the favor.”

And suddenly, the spell is broken, and she is Rey, and he is _hunger_ and _want_ and _conquer,_ but now it’s also _lust._  It’s overwhelming, cloying Rey’s senses and making that same pit of _want_ open up inside of her.

She flees.

* * *

It is raining.

They are on sacred ground, _divine_ ground. Perhaps there and been and empire, long ago; now there is just the two of them, lost children separated by a lifetime of strife.  He is covered in blood – First Order blood, Snoke’s blood, _everyone’s fucking blood-_ and it is all for her. He is hers.

He sinks to his knees before her, looking at her with nothing short of adoration in his eyes.

He would worship her, if she gave him the chance. He would conquer worlds and erect effigies to her form, consecrate temples in her name, make her _queen –_

But there it is, that almost-pity in her eyes. The only sound is the rain above the temple.

He found her living here, in old Force-user quarters. These people predated the Jedi and the Sith, existed before the Force became a dichotomy.

It is a perfect place for her.

He barreled into her room – but he is a dog chasing prey. He does not know what to do when he reaches it. So he prostrates himself before her, sinking to his knees. _Thy will be done._

She gazes down at him, unignited saber in her hand and conflict in her eyes. He is entranced. She stops before him and regards him and he – he bows his head.

“I am yours.”

Her breathing hitches – almost imperceptible, but he is supersensitive ,when it comes to her. “Kylo…”

And oh, how he loves how his name falls from her mouth. “Use me as you will. I am yours to command.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“I’ve no other purpose.” A part of him wonders if she understands what he is offering – the sheer power that is within him, the potential they have together. He wonders why she is content to hide away in the ruins of an empire.

He wonders if she was waiting for him here.

He wonders if she was waiting to kill him.

 

Rey places a hand on his head, fists it into his hair. He can feel her conflict – her passion, her disgust, her _want –_ and that is what they share, the gaping hole inside of them that _hungers._

If it were up to him, she would not be for want of anything.

* * *

**To be continued**


	2. kyrie eleison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wolf remembers what the dog forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaah, thank you so much for your kind words<3 I'm actually going to make it a point to reply this time, but I'm so humbled and floored by your support of this :3 
> 
> (shoutout to theauraki for giving me an extra nudge with that shoutout)
> 
> Pardon the gratuitous Latin. Kyrie Eleison means "lord have mercy." The best use of the phrase can be seen in The Hunchback of Notre Dame'a "Hellfire."

 

There are wolfdogs on Jakku, bred specifically to not feel any pain. They’re fighting dogs, with massive teeth and bloodshot eyes, trained to clamp their jaws down on their opponent and not let go, not until they die.

Rey wonders how long Kylo Ren will keep biting.

* * *

She’s amassing an army.

She is no Jedi, no Sith, but something in between, something _other._ She’s acquiesced to his presence and there he is, always in her shadow, a hound at her feet. He does not know her intentions.

He is not sure if he wants to know.

Kylo prowls through her ranks, prepared to keep the soldiers in line –but she does not need him. Their loyalty is undying, much like his own. The army is stationed on the planet, away from her barren temple. It is sacred, she tells him.

It is scarred, he thinks. Ravaged, ruinous, razed to the ground in all but a handful of places. But she roams the ruins like a specter, and he – dutiful dog that he is – trails after her.

Other times, he’s off-world. He’s made it his personal duty ( _his offering, is penance)_ to track down the rest of the Knights and First Order officers.

He needs to cut them down before he can get to Snoke. His former master is eating away at his consciousness like a cancer, like a parasite, and he needs to rip it open and cauterize the wound – the need is pressing, permanent, always at the forefront of his mind.

He would rip his mind apart if it meant getting rid of Snoke.

* * *

Rey does not know where he sleeps, in this godless temple.

Perhaps that is for the best; she scarcely sleeps herself, here in this haunted temple. The ghosts are here in abundance, and they whisper their whims whenever Rey passes by.

She cannot help but pity them _(pity him, living in the shadows, lost without a master, a defanged wolf at her heels)_.

She hides this pity, tucks it into her breast and stamps it down. Kylo can never know, can never sense the unrest beneath her breast. He’d go half-mad trying to assuage it, trying to convince her to not pity him.

* * *

She trains with him.

He is a brutal master, feral and fierce, and reminds Rey of a hurriceane. He pushes her to her limits, will drive her within an inch of her life, will not let her stop until she’s collapsed from exhaustion.

Each day she grows stronger; soon she will surpass him.

But she still has that tinge of _light,_ that Skywalker brand of pacifism.

If she wants to defeat the First Order _(if she wants to defeat him)_ , she will have to strike to kill.

They have abandoned their sabers in favor of hand-to-hand combat, and she is pulling her punches, insult of insults. He has the advantage of size and skill, and if she thinks she can hurt him, she _should._

“Hit me!” he grits out, blocking her hammerfist. She throws an uppercut which he knocks away easily. Her refusal to engage angers him further. He snarls and shoves her back. “C’mon, scavenger runt, Snoke will kill you if you can’t fight, _hit me.”_

“What the fu-“ she begins, but he’ll have none of it. “ _HIT ME!”_ he roars, and then Rey, fueled by anger and injured pride and something else, does. She punches him square in the jaw, hard enough to give him whiplash and split his lip. He relishes it, the way it stings, the taste of iron. Pleasure and pain have long since been a blurred line for him, and Rey, with her wild eyes and clenched teeth, blur that line further.

“Is that all?” he taunts. “Better go back to Jakku –“

And she hits him again, fists colliding with his chest and jaw and abdomen. Jolts of electricity seem to run through him at each blow, and he realizes that maybe this is it, this is the crux of his attraction _(devotion)._ He blocks the one to his throat, grabbing her by the arm and throwing her aside. She scrambles to her feet, ready for more, but he shakes his head.

“We’re finished here,” he says.

Rey sighs. “We’re never finished,” she says, and walks away.

* * *

He comes to her quarters at night _(every night)._

Sometimes he lingers, sits at her bedside as she falls asleep. Sometimes she knows he’s there. Sometimes she doesn’t.

He envies how easily she falls asleep.

He wonders why she sleeps alone.

She commands hundreds – thousands if you count off-planet – and there were dozens of men and women willing to warm her bed. But she refuses, remains resolutely celibate.

Kylo tries to pretend that he doesn’t crave her touch, as if he hasn’t been dreaming of it since that night in his shuttle. But he is a patient man, and he will wait.

Some nights find him kneeling at her feet, pressing a kiss to the apex of her thighs. She refuses him – she’ll always refuse him, he thinks – and he accepts the refusal.

But should she ever want it _(want him)_ he would not keep her waiting.

* * *

They are arguing.

They seem to do that more often than not nowadays; they can never seem to agree on how to operate her army.

“I think I’d know Snoke better than you, _scavenger,”_ he sneers; half a second later Rey’s fist lashes out and bloodies his lip.

Really, he shouldn’t be surprised.

She glares at him, and for the first time he sees the faintest hint of yellow bleeding into her brown eyes.

_(It will not be the last, he thinks.)_

The ever-present darkness in his mind lifts, and something shifts and falls into place, and the intent – before it is diluted with desire – fuels him. She will not survive without that aurelian edge, will not live past Snoke’s first blow if she does not succumb, if only a little, to the Dark.

Kylo feels his heart pound in his chest at the thought. He takes Rey by the shoulders, interrupting her angered rant, and presses her against the wall, caged between his arms. He presses a chaste kiss to her lips, leaving them red in his wake.

“Tell me, little bird,” he whispers in her ear. “Do you like the taste of my blood?”

Before Rey can respond he’s gone, robes flaring out behind him as he disappears down a corridor.

Her curses echo in the stone hallways after him. 

* * *

 

The wolf remembers what the dog forgot. The wolf remembers _hate_ and _kill_ and _conquer,_ the wolf remembers _hunger_ and _want_ and _survive, survive, survive._

The wolf can be smart; the wolf will wait to show its fangs, will bide its time and hide its nature until it is provoked.

Rey had lived among wolves before.

She just never thought she’d have to again.

* * *

He waits in the shadows, after that.

He is a yellow-eyed monster, and he slaughters in her name. He leads squadrons of her armies and hears their whispers: that he is a Sith, that he is a shade, that he is a specter. _(And really, are they wrong?)_

He is prepared to have a self-imposed banishment, but she shows up for their routine sparring. There is not much more he can teach her – and even then, all he can offer is a refinement of her skills. Her raw power is greater than his _(greater than Snoke’s, although he won’t tell her that yet. That would be asking for a rash descision)_ but he will not let her – nor himself – grow soft.

They’re sparring, but he’s in the thick of it, caught with a red veil of rage over his eyes, and in that moment, he wants his own blood to mark her hands.

In that moment, he wants Rey to kill him.

And in that moment, he is truly monstrous.

“What,” she pants as he advances on her, blocking and dodging and striking, “do you _want?”_

Kylo wishes he knew. He wants everything – there is a black pit inside of him, one that is starving, one that years to consume and conquer. But she is insurmountable, an immovable object to his unstoppable force. She grabs his wrist, stopping his first from colliding with her face. She glares at him, and he sees the faintest hint of yellow bleeding into her brown eyes.

_(It will not be the last, he thinks; his plan is working.)_

“You,” he growls. Rey lets go of his arm and backs away, something akin to fear in her eyes. “You don’t,” she insists, but he ignores her.

“I want you,” he repeats, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. The sting of broken skin excites him, makes him lick his lips. He stalks closer, not taking his eyes off of her. She’s whipcord lean, almost waifish compared to him, yet she can doll out enough damage to kill him. The thought excites him.

“You want _pain_ ,” Rey retorts, snapping out her arm to strike his sternum. He lets her land the hit, but catches her wrist right after, keeping her close. “No difference,” he hisses, and there’s something there, something thrilling and scary and not-quite-human, and he can’t tell if it’s coming from himself or her but he revels in it, feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and a prickle go down his spine.

Rey jerks her hand away and kicks his thigh. He curses, pain and pleasure coalescing into arousal. He rushes her, cornering her against the stone wall of the temple. He’s undeniably hard now; he realizes this a moment too late, after he’s pressed his weight against her to keep her still.

“You’re sick,” Rey spat. The disgust is clear on her face, and Kylo...

...Kylo wants nothing more than to drag her to his level, to turn that disgust into fascination, to _take_ and _conquer_ and _worship,_ to prove to her that this is her nature. 

“You love it,” he snarls, face inches away from her own. “Your nature is to inflict pain; mine is to endure. We are a perfect match, you and I.”

There’s a split second where she’s deciding what to do – he can see it clear on her face, he can feel it with the Force - she doesn't know whether she wants to hit him or kiss him. Kylo feels his cock throb at the suggestion of either. 

“You’re _sick,”_ she repeats, but Kylo Ren knows the snarl of denial, can smell the heady scent of her sex. _(He quite likes the pot calling the kettle black.)_ He puts both hands on her hips; Rey makes no move to get away, but she's tense, ready to kick at the slightest provocation.  He drags his hand around to her front, lowers it to the apex of her thighs and applies the slightest bit of pressure. She gasps and – to his delight – grinds against it. He can feel it, the internal battle she's fighting, but underneath it all is that swirling black pit of _want_ , the one that's mirrored inside of him

He hooks a finger underneath the waistband of her leggings; she doesn't protest as his hand dips down, as he presses a finger to her core. He gives a sharp hiss at the wetness there. He strokes her folds and she gasps and moans, and Kylo Ren wonders why he hadn't done this sooner. Her nails dig into his bicep, pushing into a bruise, and he exhales sharply as pleasure and pain coalesce into one.

 _(He's been craving her touch since that night on his ship; he's been meaning to repay her.)_  

He slips his finger inside of her and pumps back and forth; Rey makes a futile attempt to stifle her mewls and moans. He leans closer, lips brushing against the pale curve of her neck.

“You’re just as sick as I am," he whispers. "You get off on it. I might want it, but you _need_ it.” 

_(He would not let her be for want of anything.)_

"Fuck  _you,"_ she snarls, and shoves him away. She stumbles, rises to her full height, looking for all the world like she could kill him. Part of him wants her to try.

He smirks, shrugs, and turns around. He's still hard, would love nothing more than to have Rey pin him against the wall and fuck him senseless, but he's overplayed his hand, he's overestimated her desire and underestimated her anger. 

"You're just as sick as I am," he tells her, turning around. "And when you decide to admit that to yourself…” he throws the words over his shoulder, “Come find me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think<3


End file.
